


a series of unfortunate prompts

by aph606 (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Meet-Cute, Mentioned Ships - Freeform, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Tumblr Prompt, unrequited crushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 12:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12959310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/aph606
Summary: just some old fics that i'm moving onto here. give them a read, if you'd like





	1. (dennor) Knock Knock, I Think I Like You A Little Bit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> opposites attract au: “the class clown tries to get the pretentious, stoic know-it-all to laugh au”

“I bet I can get you to laugh,” Mathias said, pointing a finger at him. “Twenty bucks if I can.”

That finger was touching the tip of his nose, and Lukas pushed it away. “It’s not smart to make bets you can’t win,” he remarked, voice as flat as ever. “Especially if the money you don’t have is involved.”

Mathias’ eyes flashed; he always loved a good challenge. “Knock knock,” he said, thumping his knuckles on Lukas’ wooden desk as he did so.

Lukas didn’t even twitch. “No one’s home,” he replied, pulling a book toward him and opening it. “All the lights are off, there isn’t a car in the driveway, and the house is silent. Come back never.”

Mathias furrowed his brows. “Okay, gonna play it the hard way, I see,” he muttered, a laugh escaping him. He slipped into the desk beside Lukas and sat there, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning across the aisle. “What kind of dog can jump higher than a building?”

“These are jokes I’ve heard my little brother tell off of popsicle sticks,” Lukas commented.

“Any dog! Buildings can’t– hey, my jokes aren’t that bad.” Mathias pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes up at Lukas in a mock show of focus. “Hmm.”

Lukas glanced at him over the top of his book. “What?” he asked, ears warming under the studious gaze he was centered under. “Hmph. I’ve seen you look at exam papers with less focus..”

“Maybe you’re a black humor sort of guy,” Mathias reported, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “What’s the hardest part of a vegetable to eat?”

“The wheelchair. Look, that might have been funny in the fifth grade, but not anymore.” Lukas closed his book and placed it on the desk. “You should just stop trying. I don’t laugh at dumb jokes like that, so just–”

“Will you remember me in a year?” Mathias suddenly asked.

Lukas blinked, a little startled at the frown the other wore. It was jarring to see him wearing anything but a goofy grin. “I’ve known you for five years and haven’t forgotten you yet,” he said, “so I’m sure I will.”

“Will you remember me in a month?” Mathias pressed.

“What are you getting at here?”

“Yes or no?”

“Fine. Yes.”

“Will you remember me in a week?”

“Yes?”

“Knock knock.”

Lukas furrowed his eyebrows. “Who’s there.”

Mathias grinned sunnily, a joyous twinkle in his eyes. “See, you already forgot about me.”

Lukas stared up at him, absorbing that happy grin. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he dipped his head, allowing his lips to quirk up. “That was stupid,” he said, a chuckle slipping out of his mouth.

Mathias cheered. “I did it!” he whooped, pointing a finger right at Lukas’ small smile. “You chuckled!”

“Are you surprised I’m not a humorless robot?” Lukas inquired, schooling his voice back into the careful monotone he always used. He picked his book back up and reopened it. “Because you sure seem like it.”

“No, no! I’m not surprised that you CAN laugh!” Mathias gazed down at him, beaming grin faded into a warm smile that made Lukas’ ears feel hot. “I’m just surprised that you…. you have a really nice laugh, you know that?”

Lukas closed his eyes, quickly tapping a rhythm against the corner of his book to the quickened beating of his heart. “Now I do,” he said after a low key swallow.

Mathias was still giving him a strange look; the soft smile and brightness of his eyes made Lukas feel slightly lightheaded. “You should laugh more,” the Dane said, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. “It’d be really nice to hear, especially since you’re always grumbling and muttering.”

Lukas nodded, telling himself to concentrate on the words on the page rather than Mathias’ warm hand lingering on his shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

Mathias nodded, hand sliding off of Lukas’ shoulder. “Great.” He stood from the desk beside Lukas. “Make you laugh tomorrow, okay?”

“I doubt it,” Lukas replied, turning a page, and Mathias grinned happily as he noticed the red of the other’s ears.


	2. (sufin) Mr. Scary Stilts-for-Legs, meet Mr. Sweater Vest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> opposites attract au: “a scary-looking person who unintentionally makes kids cry and a daycare volunteer meet at a children-filled park”

Being a six-foot-three-inch tall man who scowled at nearly everything meant you received a lot of mildly nervous stares.

Berwald was more than used to it, so it didn’t bother him too much. But still, when a small child accidentally barrelled into his legs and burst into tears after receiving the brunt of a confused scowl, it was startling.

“D-don’t cry,” he stammered, but between his deep, rumbling voice and his thick Swedish accent, it seemed to only scare the child even more. “It’s okay…”

“Oh, Peter!”

Berwald looked up at the crying boy that had run into him. A petite blond in a powder blue sweater was hurrying toward him; a small white dog, no more than a ball of fluffy fur, was at their heels.

Berwald’s heart jumped.

The man dropped to his knees at the blubbering boy’s side, clearly not caring about getting grass stains on his khakis, and enveloped him in a gentle hug. “Peter, don’t cry,” he soothed in an unfamiliar, quirky accent. “What happened?”

“I-I ran into him,” the boy, Peter, stuttered, pointing up at Berwald. “H-he’s so scary!”

The man’s gaze followed Peter’s pointing, and Berwald felt his mouth dry up when he saw protectiveness in that pair of caramel brown eyes. “It’s not very nice to call people scary to their faces, Peter,” the man chided gently, wiping the boy’s wet cheeks with his sleeve. “I’m sure he wasn’t going to hurt you or anything!”

“Yeah…” Peter mumbled with a sniffle. The dog, who had been providing yappy background noise, clamored into his lap, and he encircled his arms around it even as it licked his chin. “I guess you’re right.”

Berwald cleared his throat, noticing the way the other adult’s shoulders jumped with a slight flinch. “..didn’t mean to scare ‘im,” he said, trying to pronounce as clearly as he could. “He just ran into me…”

The other man reached up and brushed the wheat-blond fringe out of his eyes. “I see. Sometimes Peter doesn’t watch where he’s going,” he explained, glancing down and fondly patting Peter on the head. “I think he needs to apologize for running into you. Don’t you think so, Peter?”

The man stood, helping Peter to his sneakered feet as the puppy leaped to the grassy ground. “Yeah,” Peter agreed, still mumbling. He looked up at Berwald with round, watery blue eyes. Berwald noticed that he had a pair of oddly thick, bushy eyebrows. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Berwald replied, eyes flickering to the man, who nodded in satisfaction. “Sorry I got in your way.”

“It’s okay. I think,” Peter added, “I can’t really understand you. You should speak clearly, like this–”

“Okay, Peter, that’s enough!” The man cut in with an anxious laugh, shooting Berwald a familiarly nervous look. It made him blink, and want the gentle smile back.

The man put his hands on Peter’s shoulders and turned him around, pushing him toward a group of children gathered at the edge of the playground area. “Take Hanatamago and go play with your friends, okay? I’m going to talk to Mister… this man for a minute, okay?”

The man turned back to him as Peter ran off, hands wrung together. “I’m sorry about that, sir,” he said apologetically, blinking quickly as they met eyes. “He didn’t really mean to–”

“It’s okay,” Berwald interrupted, waving a hand in a way that he hoped was reassuring. “It didn’t hurt me or ‘nything.”

“Whew. That’s good.” The man smiled, dimples forming in his flushed, chubby cheeks. His smile quirked nervously again, and he held out a small, short-fingered hand. “M-my name is Tino. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“M’ name is Berwald,” he said, balling his fist before reaching out to take Tino’s hand. His hand enclosed the other’s warm hand, and as he shook it he couldn’t help notice how soft the skin was. “It’s a pleasure.”

Tino smiled warmly, and Berwald’s heart jumped for the second time. He relinquished Tino’s hand and dropped his own back to his side.

“Er,” he suddenly said. “What kind of dog was that?”

“Huh?” Tino squinted up at him – the top of his head only reached Berwald’s shoulder – before he deciphered what was apparently mumbling. “Oh! Oh, she’s a Maltese! I rescued her from the pound when she was only a few months old. She actually used to be smaller than that, it’s hard to believe…”

Suddenly, Tino looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling,” he apologized, blushing pink and fiddling with the hem of his sweater. “I’m sure you have somewhere to be, so I’ll just…”

Tino looked back at the children he was supposed to be watching, and Berwald followed his gaze. He brought up his wrist and took notice of the time on his watch. “’Ve got nowhere to be right now,” he said, letting his arms drop back to his side.

Tino blinked up at him, golden brown eyes entrancing Berwald’s own icy blues. Then, the corners of his eyes wrinkled as he let out a small laugh, and Berwald realized that as he listened to that laugh and felt his pulse skip a beat, and his face warmed mildly, he was hooked on talking to this adorable volunteer chaperone and could talk to him for hours.


	3. (giripan) Sweet like Teavanna Peach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> greece/japan + 6: meeting in a coffee shop AU

Arthur was fairly easy to recognize, with his infamously bushy eyebrows and muted green wardrobe. Alas, no one among the passing crowd donned either, and Honda Kiku looked down into his swirling cup of tea, the steam warming his face as he wondered why his friend (or was it workplace acquaintance?) was late.

“Surely it’s for a good reason,” he mused, sparing his forlorn cell phone a glance. Kiku raised his cup to his mouth and blew a cooling breath into it. “Arthur… er, Kirkland-san is hardly ever tardy without having a good excuse for it.”

The thought reassured himself not to feel irritated that he’d been stood up; maybe the chamomile-peach tea helped with that, too. Kiku closed his eyes and took another small sip, humming quietly as he swallowed.

Suddenly, a loud ‘thump’ sound made him open his eyes and jump slightly. Kiku looked at an individual slumped over in the booth in front of his, one eyebrow raised in concern.

The person - a man, from the broad, toned shoulders - was slouched, face smushed against the table; their forehead had apparently made the loud thud.

Kiku set his cup aside and furrowed his eyebrows. He tilted his head and shifted in his seat a little, trying to discern if the man was alright, but it was hard to tell with the man lying face down and partially hidden by the table. Cold fingers of panic gripped him; what if that man had something wrong with him and needed an ambulance?!

Kiku reluctantly slid out of his booth seat and stood, straightening out his shirt as he approached the next table. He extended a slightly shaking hand, trembling with the worry that any contact might be bothersome, and placed it on the man’s shoulder. “Excuse me.. are you alright?”

The man’s shoulder twitched beneath his hand and slowly raised his head. “Hm?” he hummed sleepily, blinking up at Kiku. His eyes were a vivid green, bleary with drowsiness. There was wavy brown hair stuck to his cheek. “Oh. Hello there. What are you doing… just standing there…? Would you like to sit down.. or is there something you need?”

“Erm, no.” Kiku took a small pace back and wrung his hands. Then he set his mouth into a thin line and clasped his hands, giving a small bow. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I was just worried that something was wrong because you fell over so suddenly…”

“Huh?” The man propped his head on a hand and looked up at him. “Oh. No, sorry, I’m fine. My forehead hurts, but I’m mostly fine. My arm, it must have slipped… Thank you for checking on me.”

“It was no trouble,” Kiku replied.

“My name… it’s Heracles. What’s yours?” Kiku stared blankly, and Heracles shifted. “…sorry, I meant your name. What’s your name?”

“Ah… Kiku Honda.”

“Hmm, Honda? Like the car?”

The corner of his mouth threatened to twitch upwards into a dry smile, but Kiku managed to keep his expression controlled. “Yes, like the car.”

Heracles extended a hand, pointing to him, then gestured to the empty seat across from him. “You should sit. It must be tiring, just standing there…”

“But I would not want to impose. It would be rude..”

“But I offered,” Heracles said. He spoke in a sluggish voice, like his thoughts were swimming in molasses. “So it wouldn’t be rude… not at all. It isn’t like I’m doing something important, like…. I don’t know. But, I mean.. if you don’t want to… then I won’t make you.”

Kiku glanced to his left, seeing his cup of tea no longer steaming and his cell phone remaining dark and unnotified; to his right, seeing a couple standing together at the counter, neither person being Arthur, who was now officially, inexcusably, half an hour late.

Turning back to Heracles, he met his eyes, then looked down at his shoes. “Thank you… Heracles-san. I think I will take you up on your offer to sit and talk.”

Heracles gave him a drowsy, lazy sort of smile. “Wonderful.”


	4. (gerita) No More Holy Romes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> germany/italy + 18: waking up with amnesia AU

There was cotton in his ears, and there was glue on his eyelashes, forcing his eyes to stay shut. He felt heavy, like his limbs were made of lead and his head was a concrete block. The will to fight the heaviness entered his thoughts, but was consumed by the thick, soupy fog that had clouded it. All he could concentrate on was how it sounded like someone was trying to talk while they were underwater.

(His right pointer finger twitched.)

The haze was as thick as a wall; muffled sounds bounced off of it and reached his ears, but the noise was too far warped and distorted to make out. Something thumped from somewhere at his right, like something heavy had fallen to the ground. He felt the impulse to wander over to the sound, but he resisted the urge and strained his ears. Was… were the distorted sounds getting clearer?

(Two people were shouting at the end of his bed; a third was wearily trying to separate them, and a fourth was sitting in a chair beside the bed, eyes dull and one hand resting over a limp, bandaged one.)

Now the fog was growing lighter. He narrowed his gaze and turned; the haze was gradually starting to fade from smoky gray, all because of a light trying to bleed through the wall of fog. He was still rooted to the spot, like his feet were two tons each, but the fog was sluggishly creeping along, so moving wasn’t necessary.

The light was beginning to cut through the haze, and it made him squint. He couldn’t cover his eyes, so he closed them, but the back of his eyelids turned red as the light brightened. The sounds from earlier, warped noises, was slowly becoming voices; voices that startled him, because they were suddenly screaming loud and full of hateful swears, but were frighteningly familiar even though he’d never heard them before.

(‘It’s all your goddamn fault!’

‘Don’t fucking shout at me!’

'Both of you, stop fucking yelling or else they’ll call security and haul your asses out of here! None of this arguing is going to make him wake up any quicker, so just stop it already!’)

His left hand felt warm, compared to the rest of his body, which felt colder than stone. He pondered on why that could possibly be for a moment, but then the bright light intensified and engulfed him, and there was a strain on his eyelids like he was fighting the glue that held them shut.

In a jarring rush of color, he opened his eyes and groaned as his senses were overloaded.

The raised voices fell deathly silent, but a whisper from beside him cut through the wisps of fog still addling his brain. “Ludwig, you’re awake!”

Ludwig.. that name… it rang as clear as a bell in his ears. He blinked, still struggling against his heavy eyelids. “Wh.. I… ngh…”

“Ludwig, mi Dio, you’re awake! It’s been so long!” He still couldn’t move his hundred pound head, but his eyes could flicker in their sockets with ease. Out of the corner of his eye, a person was sitting in a plastic chair.

They seemed to sense the effort he was making to see, and they moved into his field of vision. A round-faced man, tan in skin tone, was now sitting beside him. In short, he looked terrible: his clothes were wrinkled and his hair was matted and dirty. Fat teardrops were rolling down his cheeks, but he was smiling, beaming weakly.

“I forgot how blue your eyes were,” the man said with a chuckle, his own brown pair softening to a warm honey shade. “They’re still so piercing and cold, even after being closed for so long… like ice.”

“Wh…” He tried to form words, but they stuck to his tongue like they were taped there. “Ah…”

“What are you trying to say?” The auburn haired man spoke with a weird accent; it was airy and kind of slurred, making it hard to understand each word. “If you can’t speak, then don’t make yourself. You only just woke up, after all, you must be exhausted and so weak-feeling.”

The auburn haired man raised something that was clasped in two hands, and he realized that it was his own hand, bandaged and knobby-looking, stark pale against the other’s darker skin. There was a plastic bracelet on his wrist; he could only see three fingers on his hand.

He tried again. “Wh…”

The man nodded eagerly, giving his bandaged hand a gentle squeeze, a hopeful smile pushing up the corners of his eyes.

“Wh.. who… a-are… you?”


	5. (aushun) heaRtsong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> austria/hungary + 1: soulmates AU
> 
> this one was a huge pain in my tired ass to write. but! i did it anyways ur welcome

Erszébet gathered her hair over her left shoulder, craning her neck and straining her eyes in order to see it. The loopy letter R was just behind her right ear, tormenting her like it did every day. She scowled at it. That stupid tattoo was the reason she’d allowed her hair to grow out from its short, choppy childhood length. All this thick, wavy hair would hide the little fucker from the world…

Including her neighbor, Roderich.

Roderich Edelstein was an aristocratic young man descended from Austrian nobility. He spoke with the same regality as his kind mother Theresia did, but didn’t slur his th’s into z’s and his w’s into v’s. He had long slender fingers that Erszi knew she could snap like twigs; always covering them were pristine white gloves that he probably fuckin’ bathed and slept in. He had tea in his back garden every day at two, and practiced the violin for six hours of the day.

Erszi hated him.

She always had, upon discovering how fucking perfect he was. He had the straightest posture imaginable, like he’d replaced his spine with a steel rod. He walked like he was waltzing and talked like he was a singing; he frowned like everyone he passed was beneath him. He bowed to teachers and parents, and even offered to pull out her chair for her not once, not twice, but thrice, when they were seated beside each other back in the eighth grade.

He acted like it wasn’t her, under the alias of Eli, hadn’t pushed him into mud puddles and whacked him with wooden swords and dangled loogies in his face as children.

And that’s what was so fascinating about him.

He was really interesting, and Erszi found herself wanting to study him. He had an astounding talent for music. One day when she was younger, and the Edelstein duo had just moved in next door, she’d heard him playing something that seemed like it would be too complicated for his clumsy seven-year-old fingers to manage. But when she’d peeked over the shrubbery terrace separating their yards, she’d found him with his back turned to the music stand, playing with his eyes closed.

How the fuck did a seven-year-old memorize Vivaldi’s Winter… but wind up all the way across town when school ended?

As amazing as he was, she’d overestimated him. Yes, Roderich might have had a brilliant memory for music, but he appeared to have dedicated all those electrons in his brain to those dusty old pieces instead of the directions to his own fucking house. It was pathetic, and it still was, even ten years later, and she even pitied him a little.

Which was part of the reason why she always accepted Ms. Edelstein’s plea to walk home with her foolish son every day.

Erszébet tilted her head and looked at the tattoo again. The R remained, printed in deep indigo just behind the shell of her ear, peeking out from behind the curve of a loose curl of hair. She sighed, shoulders sagging as the breath whooshed out of her.

It made her heart ache a little, to wonder who his soulmate was. But, wallowing in self-pity wasn’t something she did, no matter what happened. She’d heard of the tattoos changing. Maybe someday hers would shift, change, be rewritten from a deep indigo R. But Fate would have to see that it was mistaken, before it changed its mind; you know how stubborn and sadistic the universe could be.

A distant knock jerked her out of her thoughts. She looked at the analog clock ticking from its place on the wall. Who would knock at six in the evening?

She slipped off the bed and made her way downstairs, lightly descending the steps in case her visitor was unwanted and unfamiliar. Erszi peeked into the stained glass window panes on either side of the door, finding no car in the driveway. A quick look into the peephole revealed her visitor to be no one else but the very boy she’d just been thinking about.

“Speak of the devil,” she muttered, going to unlock the door as Roderich knocked a third time.

Erszi slid the locks out of place and opened the door, stepping in front of the open space. “What do you want?” she asked, wincing at how accusatory she’d sounded.

Roderich didn’t look fazed. “My mother sent me over,” he said, raising a hand and waving over to his house. “Since your grandfather is out of town, she thinks you’re pitiful and lonely without any company.”

Erszi scoffed. “And she claims to know me at all?”

“Yes,” Rod said, declining his head and agreeing with her scorn. He raised a hand up to his collar and adjusted the silk tie he wore. Erszi’s eyes followed the movement of his hand. He wasn’t wearing the gloves, and a glimpse of something printed on his ring finger, dark and bold against his fair skin, caught her eye, but he dropped his hand too quickly to make out what letter it was.

So that was why he wore gloves all the time. He didn’t want anyone to know about his soulmate.

She leaned against the door frame, absently tucking hair behind her ear. Her fingertips brushed the indigo R printed there, and she swallowed. “Since it’d be rude to refuse,” she began, straightening up again. She gave her head a subtle tilt, causing the hair she’d brushed away to fall over her ear again. “I’ll come. But make sure to tell your mom that I am NOT pitiful.”

Roderich smiled, reaching up to adjust his collar once again. Her eyes darted to them, and this time, she caught the letter. “I’ll definitely do that,” he said.

Erszébet nodded, swallowing her heart in her throat. “Let me run upstairs and put on something nicer,” she said, gesturing down to the jean shorts she wore, almost hidden beneath the hem of her forest green sweatshirt. “And then I’ll be right over.”

Roderich bowed his head. “I’ll be waiting here to escort you.”

With a nod, she closed the door and turned, bolting back upstairs and into her room. Spotting the dark red skirt and the white blouse from school yesterday, she stripped off her house wear and threw the nicer clothes on. Slipping on a pair of black flats, she ran a brush through her hair and rushed back downstairs.

Just before she approached the door, Erszébet paused in front of the mirror hanging in the foyer. She tilted her head and gathered her hair over her left shoulder, craning her neck and straining her eyes.

The familiar R made a warm smile flicker on her face, and the blockish green E that Roderich bore on his left-hand ring finger made her heart soar.

Because her name began with an E, and her eyes were that same green.

She was his soulmate like he was hers.


	6. (fruk) Wedding Woes. or, Arthur Socializes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> france/england + 22: miserable people meet at a wedding AU

Arthur was downing his third glass of rum punch (courtesy of the groom’s alcoholic friend Gilbert) when Francis first approached him.

He lowered the empty glass and glowered out at the dance floor, watching Alfred wince as his platinum-haired dance partner stomp hard on his foot with her stiletto heel. Kiku was politely shuffling back and forth with a slender blonde in a purple dress. Roderich and Elizabeta, the bride and groom themselves, were twirling together in a waltz for the third time, when suddenly that Gilbert fellow cut in and dragged Roderich away, pulling him into a sloppy dance that showed he was, indeed, already drunk.

All these happy people made him much thirstier than usual (in more ways than one). He needed another drink or five.

Suddenly, a full glass was placed right in front of him, and someone slipped into a chair on his left.

Arthur glanced over at his new company. “What do you want?” he asked, eyeing the drink warily.

“To keep my fellow bachelor company, of course,” the man responded, and an ancient resentment sparked in Arthur at the sound of the lilting French accent.

“Who said I’m a bachelor?” Arthur demanded.

“Me,” the Frenchman replied, raising his own glass - white wine; of bloody course - and taking a sip. “Unless all of those glasses are your dates? Ooh, we have a player amidst us!”

Arthur snorted, still not taking a drink. “Did you drive here and do you have some keys on you?”

The other’s eyebrows furrowed, and he swallowed quickly. “Mm. I did, and I do. Why do you ask?”

“So I can scratch an ’s’ on your car and give you the keys back. Maybe then you’ll make like the snails you Frenchies eat and escargot away.”

The man choked on another sip of wine, and Arthur smirked, raising his own glass up and taking a drink. He recoiled with a scowl; he’d forgotten he disliked wine. The laughter made him forget it again.

“My, what a delightful sense of humor,” the man said flatly as he recovered from laughing, but the corner of his mouth was still quirked upward.

Arthur smirked too. “It’s one of my many charms,” he said.

The man snorted. “Along with having the strength to show yourself in public with those monstrous eyebrows on your face? What a quaint individual you are. Now, if only I knew your name.”

“If only,” Arthur agreed, absentmindedly taking another sip of wine. He blanched and drew the glass away again, lip curled down at it. “You know, not everyone has your nasty taste of liquor. Why did you get me a glass of disgusting wine?”

“A peace offering, originally, but I can see that I’ll need to work harder to get what I want from you, mon chou.”

“Don’t call me a cabbage, you weirdo.” Arthur narrowed his eyes and gripped the glass, reminding himself not to listen to habit and take a sip. “And what is it you want from me? Because just because I’ve had a few drinks doesn’t mean you ought to think I’m an easy target. If it’s a bed buddy you’d like then forget it, pervert!”

The man looked alarmed, and Arthur smirked triumphantly at how taken aback he appeared. But the shake of the head had him a little confused. “I’m insulted,” he began, a hand over his chest. He sniffled. “I’m hurt. All I beg of you is a dance, and you scoff at me and accuse me of being easy? Oh, your insults pierce my poor heart!”

“Drama queen,” Arthur leered, nose wrinkled as the man leaned against him and pretended to sob.

The man straightened up almost instantly at that. “I have not been addressed by my true title in years. Simply amazing.”

“The only amazing thing here is how long I’ve been in your presence and not quite wanted to get pissed.”

“Rude.” The man sniffed and jerked his chin into the air. “Well, if you just want to drink yourself into oblivion, then be my guest! I suppose I shall take my company elsewhere, where it will be appreciated!”

Arthur bent his fingers in a wave. “Au revoir,” he said smugly.

The man stood and left with a huff, his empty glass of wine remaining behind with the rest. Arthur was reminded of that odd man’s remark about them - ‘unless all of those glasses are your dates? Ooh, we have a player amidst us!’ - and gave a weak chuckle.

On his way to the refreshments table, Arthur was stopped; a hand spun him around by the shoulder, startling him. “You!” he gasped as he let his hackles drop, but bristled again as he was taken into a pair of warm arms.

The man from a few minutes ago smirked. “Moi,” he agreed. “I’m afraid I simply cannot bear to see you spend your time with another round of drinks instead of me.”

“Looks like I’m not the only thirsty one here,” Arthur commented, electing to smother the urge to wriggle away - for now.

The man snickered. “Oh dear, maybe we should put a hold on our dance so we can run to a nearby store and get some aloe for that burn.”

“You might need a lot more aloe then, because if you get too close then you’ll get burnt.”

“You only succeed in drawing me like a moth to a flame, mon cher.”

“You think you’re quite hot, don’t you, froggy?”

“But of course! Francis Bonnefoy is the hottest around!” the man proclaimed, and Arthur pulled a face at the meaning of that name. “Do you~?”

“As hot as Antarctica, maybe. Now, if you would kindly release me..”

Francis moved away, but kept one hand on Arthur’s arm. “You still must answer my request,” he said. He took a step back and bowed, then presented his hand with a flourish. “Please dance with me.”

Arthur’s eyes darted to the refreshments table, then back to Francis. “Oh, fine,” he conceded, placing his hand atop the other’s. “But only one. What little buzz I had before is beginning to fade and I can’t have that, with all this free alcohol.”

“Of course.” Francis pulled him in by their joined hands and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Ah, you agreed to the scandalous Viennese waltz. How thoughtful of Roderique to arrange such a dance. It enables me to get to know you better, mon angel~”

“I’m surprised the man isn’t playing it himself,” Arthur remarked, ears prickling at the name. “Or, at least heckling them for playing incorrectly, or advising them on techniques, or whatever.”

“I find myself surprised too. But ah, let’s not waste our time together focused on our dear groom when he’s had an entire day to himself already!” Francis cut a sudden turn, and Arthur yelped as he nearly tripped in an effort to keep up with it.

Their noses nearly brushed as his partner paused to let him right himself, and Arthur found himself staring into what were possibly the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Their closeness made him blink nervously and shift away, but he didn’t look away, oddly enraptured.

“Your eyes,” Francis breathed. “They’re…”

“If you must use contrast, please don’t compare them to gemstones. I find it cheesy; stuff from soap opera novels.”

Francis cocked a wickedly smug grin. “…more beautiful than-”

“Don’t do it-”

“-the most precious of-”

“Don’t you dare!-”

“-emeralds!”

Arthur groaned loudly, and Francis laughed at the same volume as he took a step and restarted their waltz. They continued to banter throughout the dance, but Arthur forgot about their agreement of only one dance when they easily waltzed through three, bickering having distracted them.

After a while, the dance floor dispersed, and Francis and Arthur were one of the three couples remaining. (Not that they were a couple.) Most of the guests had gathered near the front of the reception building, where the newly married couple were making their goodbyes.

“They’re going to leave in a moment,” Arthur said, looking over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t we see them off too?”

“They’ll be back after a month together in Fiji.” Francis sounded strange; his voice was stifled and quiet. Arthur turned back, raising an eyebrow at the troubled expression he wore.

“What? Has all that wine from earlier finally killed your brain cells?”

“Probably less than those cups of rum have damaged yours.” Francis leaned a little closer, his hand on the small of the Brit’s back pressing closer. “Our time together is nearly over, and I will admit, I am not looking forward to it,” he confessed, eyes intense. “I will remember this lovely reception and every snarky thing you’ve said to me tonight.”

Arthur searched for a comment, some kind of sarcastic quip, but found none. He remained silent, thoughts lapsing as the other’s eyes blazed into his own. “Well.. perhaps… you, erm… I could always use a verbal punching bag, you know. Especially a French one. You’re one of the only surrender monkeys I know - thankfully - so I suppose you could do.”

Francis raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you’re sorely mistaken if you truly think I will sit and let you be a jerk to me without retaliation.”

Arthur smirked. “Prove me wrong, then.”

“How do you propose I do that?”

“Hm, do you know where Starbucks is?”

“Yes… hm, no, it’s too risky for my tastes. I might wind up having scalding hot coffee thrown at my beautiful face because you lost your cool.”

“I’m British. You truly think I drink coffee? And here I thought you might be smarter than you look.”

“Oh, did I hit a sore spot? I apologize, I thought you were over that whole revolution thing.”

“Please. We’ve been over it for ages. And if that place isn’t a good idea then what do you suggest?”

“I run a small patisserie downtown, you could stop in on my break, or maybe closing time would be better… Yes, I’ll make you a special cake! I don’t normally deface sweets but my thoughts of you are rather well summed up with a picture of a crudely drawn penis. What, with you being a massive dick and all.”

“Oh my, we’ve only known each other for an hour and you’re already hot for me..? Amazing.”

Francis laughed and Arthur rolled his eyes. They’d stopped actually dancing and were stationary, still embracing while they talked. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, hearing the laughter as background music to his thoughts: it really was amazing, how they’d been acquainted for only sixty-five minutes, and yet their connection already felt like one of the old friends. Or… maybe a different kind of old pair; married, perhaps?

When the last two couples departed from the floor, they finished settling their next meeting. “I will see you at eight next Sunday,” Francis said, eyes narrowed and a smile was drawn on his handsome face.

“Maybe,” Arthur challenged, crossing his arms and returning the smirk. “If I decide to show up.”

“You will,” Francis said loftily. The edge of his smirk softened. “I have a feeling you will.”

Arthur’s own smirk faded, and his ears began to prickle again. “We’ll see,” he scoffed, feeling oddly flustered at the warmth in the other’s eyes. He turned and began to make his way to the entrance, where a few guests were still chatting.

“Yes,” he heard Francis murmur, “we will.”


	7. (fruk) Cozy Co-Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> france/england + 13: co stars AU

“’Cozy Co-Stars: Are Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy Dating?’”

Arthur snorted into his cup of Earl Grey, throwing the flimsy tabloid across the table. It slid off the tabletop and into the lap of his company, who pulled a frosting-covered fork from his mouth and looked down at the mag. “‘More on page 24.’”

Francis swallowed his bite of vanilla-frosted cake and smirked, raising the magazine up to eye level. “Hmm, I wonder,” he hummed, placing down his fork and flipping through the tabloid. He stopped and began to read, blue eyes skimming down the page. “Do you think so?”

“I’m not sure,” Arthur replied with a huff. "They’re always fighting. Those shots of them holding hands might be doctored.“

“But they do seem to go on a lot of outings together,” Francis protested, creasing the tabloid over and turning it so Arthur could see. He tapped a finger on a corner photo of themselves, captured mid-stride down a public sidewalk, hands intertwined.

“I still say they’re mortal enemies.” Arthur took a sip of tea, eyes closed contently. “You know how obsessive the razz is. They’d certainly turn to photoshop to please their readers.”

“But mortal enemies do not cuddle, Arthur!” Francis said hotly, pointing to another picture of the two of them curled up together on one side of a booth together, his own head resting on Arthur’s shoulder. “This photo looks terrible lovey-dovey, no?”

“Okay, I’ll admit it does,” Arthur said. He set down his now-empty teacup and tilted his head. “But their relationship is still questionable, yes? Neither of them has confirmed it to anyone. Have they?”

“No, but ooh! Alfred and Honda Sakura have.”

Arthur quirked his bushy eyebrows at the mention of his younger step-brother. “They wrote about more people other than us?” he asked, sliding out of his seat and moving over to sit beside Francis. “Scoot, I want to see who Alfie is with.”

“The love interest in that weird science-fiction movie that was basically Godzilla meets Transformers? What was it again..?”

“’Atlantic Edge’?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Ah. That movie was decent, even though it was Alfie.” Arthur rested his chin on Francis’ shoulder, reading with half-lidded eyes. “They’re quite cute together. I wonder how Honda can stand noisy little Alfie, though.”

“I ask myself that same question about you every single day,” Francis sighed, turning his head and brushing his lips against Arthur’s temple. “Not that we’re in the same boat as them, of course. Since Franthur isn’t canon.”

“That’s just what they think.” Arthur wrinkled his nose. “And really? ‘Franthur’? As if your name would come before mine.”

“Obviously it would. I top, don’t I? Whoever tops gets to have their name come first in the portmanteau. Duh. Plus,” he added, waving a hand and dropping the tabloid onto the table, reaching for his cake and carefully bringing it toward him. “'Arthis’ doesn’t sound nearly as good. It sounds like some sort of disease.”

“And 'Franthur’ doesn’t? Hm, let me have a bite of that.” Arthur adjusted his chin on Francis’ shoulder and opened his mouth.

“I ought to shove this entire cake in your face. But I won’t, since I know you’ll just retaliate with something even messier, and this jacket is new and expensive.” Francis slowly raised the fork up and let Arthur lean to take it in his mouth.

“You care more about the jacket than my handsome face? Rude,” he accused, once he chewed a few times and swallowed. “Oh, that’s good… it’s French vanilla, isn’t it.”

“You know it is. All things French are delicious, especially sweets like this cake and yours truly.” Francis angled his head a bit and winked down at Arthur, who scowled and scoffed.

“That was bad,” he spat. “You’re just terrible.”

“Worse than the sneaky, photo-doctoring paparazzi?”

“Of course.” Arthur inched closer, slipping one arm around Francis’.

Francis smiled slyly. “I propose that we give them something that they don’t have to edit,” he murmured, leaning down and pressing their foreheads together. The tips of their noses touched. He brought up a hand and caressed Arthur’s chin.

Arthur angled up his face and closed his eyes. “I agree,” he breathed as their lips brushed. The sounds of cameras flashing – which they’d learned to simply block out and ignore whenever they were in public like this – was a distant white noise as they imagined what kind of headlines this kiss would produce.


	8. (pruaus) Ask Me Almost Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prussia/austria + #9: meeting online AU
> 
> this is so stupid but i don’t caaare

Their icon was a humble music note, a treble clef on a lavender-colored square, and yet the sight of it made his stomach do acrobatics.

Their URL was ‘pianoman’, and it prompted Gilbert to send them an ask one day, asking if they named themselves after Billy Joel.

Pianoman, whose description was void of any sort of name, said they had, and Gilbert followed him immediately after that. Anyone who loved Billy Joel was well worth a follow.

/

They remained quiet mutuals for a while, occasionally reblogging each other's posts. Pianoman liked Pokémon, birds, and memes, too, and even tagged Gilbert’s three am shitposts with something like ‘lmao’, but they mostly stuck to posting aesthetics. Pianoman had a classy aesthetic: gleaming pianos, breathtaking sunsets, cakes that were too pretty to eat, the handwriting of classical composers.

Then, on a Thursday morning, Pianoman said that they’d been tagged in a challenge and posted their first selfie.

Pianoman was stunning. The caption said who’d tagged him - someone with the URL queenerzsi - and he/him/they pronouns. The selfie had been taken from above, at an angle, showing the swoop of brown hair across a forehead where expressive eyebrows were raised. A pair of silver wire glasses sat upon a pointed ski-jump nose, and behind the lenses were a pair of the deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Pink was coloring his hollowed cheeks, and an equally pink pair of thin lips were drawn into a tiny, clearly fake smile.

Gilbert reblogged the selfie, but left the tags empty except for an eye emoji. 

No tags he wrote could express how that pretty face had made his heart skip a beat.

/

Pianoman revealed that his name was Roderich, and sometimes he made personal posts - mainly complaints about the people he worked with - in German. Some of the words he used weren’t from Berlin, or just northern German dialect in general.

Gilbert sent him an anon and asked where he was from.

Roderich said he was from Vienna but currently lived in Salzburg.

Still wearing his anonymous shades, Gilbert said that he was from Berlin but was living in Munich, and playfully suggested that they meet up, he could be there in less than an hour if he did at least 241 kph the entire way.

Roderich answered with a plain, flat-coded 'perhaps someday, if I ever get to know you.’

With that, Gilbert made it his intention to do just that.

He sent anons every night, sometimes one when he was particularly tired from work, sometimes up to five if it was Sunday, his only off day, but he always kept his promise. Once, they held a conversation (or, had it been an argument?) about whether Beethoven was German or Austrian for three days in a row.

He spammed Roderich with the lenny face every Friday night at twenty hundred hours, and he snickered and liked to imagine that Roderich, all the way in Salzburg, was screaming.

/

It was August 15th, 2015 when Gilbert accidentally made an utter and complete fool of himself.

He knew Roderich was around 1500 followers now - the Austrian composed for a living, and he covered everything from Ravel to Vocaloid to Nicki Minaj. You wouldn’t think that piano covers of The Queen would be enjoyable and yet Roderich proved that that was false - and he was getting asks from one of those meme posts.

'Send me a ♥ if you have a crush on me.’

Gilbert, who had trudged in at five am from covering some guy’s graveyard shift at work, forgot to engage anonymously and sent Roderich at least twenty hearts before passing out.

He woke up on Sunday afternoon at thirteen hundred, brain still fuzzy and eyelids still drooping. By some miracle, his phone was still alive on 17%, and he went to plug its charger in. He lay in bed for a while, scrolling through his dash. He’d also gotten to know Roderich’s friend queenerszi, and one of her fanfictions was at the very top of his dash. He noticed Kiku was on a Sailor Moon spam, Alfred was engaged in a hot debate about whether the newest Avengers film was TRULY good or not, and Feliciano had posted a cute selfie of himself with a brown tabby kitten.

After reblogging Feli’s selfie and liking Alfred’s argument, Gilbert rolled out of bed and went to make himself some breakfast.

He switched to his activity feed and scrolled through it while he waited for the toaster to ding. He had three new messages, but they slipped from his mind when he noticed one peculiar notification.

'Pianoman answered your ask: ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥…..

The slowly fading sleepiness vanished in an instant, and Gilbert’s heart started to pound.

“Fuck,” he said. His hands were trembling and sweating, and his thumb left moisture lines across his screen as he swiped this and there and went on Roderich’s blog. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Roderich’s answer made him freeze.

'I know.’

“'I know’?” he echoed to himself, looking up from his phone and out the window over the sink, as if the neighbor’s windowboxes of violets would provide him the answers. “What the fuck does that mean?”

The toaster dinged, and Gilbert screamed when his toast shot out of it. His phone slipped from his hand, and Gilbert screamed again when it plopped into the basin of dishes he’d been too exhausted to wash yesterday soaking in cold, murky gray water.

/

It took him five weeks of extra graveyard shifts and cutting back on beer to save for a new phone. He bought an older Samsung Galaxy, which wasn’t too bad, and immediately downloaded Tumblr again once he got home. His heart felt like it was sinking, like his old phone had in that sinkful of dishes. What had happened over the past few weeks? What memes had he missed? Who’d gotten dragged lately? Had Roderich even noticed he was gone?

He had twenty-two new messages from over the month. All were worrying if he was okay, he hadn’t posted in a few weeks, did something happen, please respond.

Gilbert hurried over to Roderich’s blog, fondly finding the new icon of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart just as dorky as the plain music note. The last few posts were concerning vagues in German: what happened to him?, I’m so worried, is he okay, I shouldn’t have acted so superior, fuck I miss him.

With a hard swallow, he went into Roderich’s inbox and sent him a casual 'hey.’

The response was surprisingly instantaneous. After Gilbert posted an update detailing the tragic loss of his old cell phone (R.I.P. iPhone 5 he’d gotten for his last birthday, you will be missed) and answered all of the asks, he refreshed his inbox and noticed Roderich’s reply.

“'Oh Gilbert, thank God you’re okay’,” Gilbert read aloud, feeling his heart jump into his throat as he imagined how relieved those words sounded.

His reply consisted of, 'Ofc i am, why wouldn’t i be?’

Conversations via ask took a while, and it felt like every few minutes between Roderich’s answers were an eternity.

'You mysteriously vanished for over a month! I thought something horrible had happened to you! Why didn’t you tell me you were okay, you jackass!!’

'bc i dropped my phone in the sink, and since im poor af i couldn’t buy a new one until recently’

'I just saw your update… I didn’t know, I’m sorry. But I was still terribly worried about you while you were gone.’

'of course u did, im aweso’ Gilbert paused, thinking for a moment. He deleted the arrogant statement, and replaced it with a simple 'why?’

'Because I ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ you too.’

Gilbert looked at the clock in the corner of his screen. Twenty hundred hours, on Friday. He replied, ’( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°) ♥’, and edited his description to say that his awesome self was officially taken, sorry ladies, gents and others, he’s singing a song with the pianoman now.


	9. (dennor) Spill Your Secrets, and Also Some Hydrochloric Acid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dennor & 14: lab partners au

Lukas probably should’ve said that he was sorry for accidentally spilling hydrochloric acid on his lab partner…

…but he wasn’t, so why bother?

“Hey, Lukas, it’s okay, no need to apologize so much.” Mathias rolled his eyes, and Lukas had to tear his own from watching rivulets of water roll down the Dane’s firmly built chest and muscular arms. “Really, I’m okay.”

“I haven’t apologized yet,” Lukas replied, focusing on his phone instead. A text from Arthur had gone unanswered for five minutes, and God knew what happened when you didn’t answer Arthur as soon as possible. He really didn’t want another tin of black, charred ‘thanks for ignoring me’ scones. He almost broke a tooth trying to eat one, last time. “And I don’t see any reason to. So why should I waste my breath?”

“You ruined my clothes! You forced me to strip down to my underwear in front of everyone and stand under this freezing cold water so I wouldn’t die!” Mathias rubbed his hands up his biceps to create heat, and Lukas dared to glance up again, feeling his face heat up at the way his arms flexed. “I mean, I know I’m hot, but it’s still embarrassing!”

“Hydrochloric acid won’t kill you,” he said, trying to keep his voice flat as Mathias turned to turn off the shower. Oh good lord, how did someone who sat on a couch all day have such a great ass? “And no, don’t turn it off yet, it hasn’t been fifteen minutes.”

“But I’m freezing!” Mathias whined, making a wild, vague gesture with his hands, back still turned. “How long until I can get the hell out?”

“Oh well.” Lukas bit his lip and swept his eyes up the other’s solid shoulders. He hummed absentmindedly, tuning the question out in favor of indulging himself in thinking about clinging to those shoulders while they– no, no! “F-four minutes. Maybe more, if you have burns.”

Mathias resigned to his fate of four more minutes of standing under a shower of cold water with a groan. He leaned against the stall wall, head tilted back against the wall. His eyes darted over to Lukas; he blinked, surprised to watch the other’s deep blue eyes jump up from memorizing his abs to meet his own. Mathias smirked, feeling his cheeks flush despite the cold shower.

“Now I think I know why you spilled that stuff on me,” he said smugly, crossing his arms. “Why, if you’d wanted to see me without any clothes on, you could’ve just skipped the part of your plan where you spill a highly corrosive acid on me and just asked me to have a few drinks with you instead.”

“Shut up,” Lukas snapped, his face turning a splotchy red color and frowning down at his cell phone again. “It was an accident.”

“One that you’re not sorry for–”

“You’re lucky I didn’t throw that stuff on your face instead of your clothes.”

“So it was on purpose! Lukas, you sly devil, I didn’t think you’d be the kind to stage an accident to get me out of my pants~”

“I really did trip, you idiot, but fine. Think what you will. I won’t waste my time arguing with someone too full of hot air to listen.” Blushing hotly, Lukas returned to finishing his text to Arthur, but couldn’t, thinking that Mathias leaving his bag in the middle of the aisle was the best thing to happen to him today.


End file.
